All the Pretty Little Moments
by Ryeloza
Summary: Seven sweet moments between Tom and Lynette.  Chapter Six: It's their first trip together.
1. Square With No Sides

**Disclaimer: **I swear, _Desperate Housewives_ isn't mine.

**Story Summary: **Seven sweet moments between Tom and Lynette. Chapter one: Tom's always been a bit of a dork.

**A/n: **I opened Word tonight to write yet another angsty fic about everything that's going on in the current season, but then I realized that what I should really be doing is celebrating the reasons why I love this couple (and yes, I do still love them). So I've decided this week is going to be all about the good stuff. Good fic and good memories (on my blog—check it out; come reminisce if you need a break as I do).

The goal is one a day for this week. I'd love to hear what you think, so take a second to review. Many, many thanks to all of you in advance.

-Ryeloza

**All the Pretty Little Moments**

By **Ryeloza**

**One: Square with No Sides**

"So," says Lynette. She leans forward, elbows propped on the table with her chin in her hands, the candlelight gently illuminating the soft curve of her cheek. It's really haunting, how beautiful she looks tonight, and his stomach is knotted in anticipation. He can see promise in the look in her eyes, hear it in the huskiness of her voice, feel it in the way her bare toes run up and down his calf.

"So," he echoes, and he's so, so grateful that his voice comes out low and flirtatious; so, so grateful for the way her eyes drop for the briefest moment, making him believe that he has the same power over her that she has over him.

"Do you have a side of the bed?"

The words break whatever semblance of control he has over the situation. Flirtation and teasing and hope aside, there is actual intention behind that question, and his entire body tenses at the idea of finally seeing her naked. He laughs, wanting to seem suave and cool, but it comes out more nervous; he winces, but she only smiles wider.

And it feels good. It feels good that he doesn't have to be _that guy_ right now. He can just be Tom: that slightly dorky guy who didn't even get kissed until he was eighteen; the guy who still can't believe that a gorgeous woman like her really has any interest in him; the guy who is so excited just to be sitting across from her and laughing with her and reveling in the intensity of her gaze.

"No," he says before he can even consider if that's not really a turn-on—does it show a lack of commitment? He forges ahead blindly. "I'm pretty flexible."

"Me too." She reaches his thigh with her toes, brushes him intimately for just a moment, and pulls away. He swallows hard, rubbing his hands against his pants nervously. "Well, you know," he babbles, trying to think about anything besides shoving everything off of the table and taking her right there, "you're the first woman I've met who doesn't care."

"So you've had a lot of women in your bed?"

"What? No!" But the panic is unfounded; he can see that she's teasing him. And he realizes that that's one of the reasons he likes her, because everything's not so damn serious all of the time. "I just…Okay, can I tell you something?"

"You can tell me anything."

_Yeah_, he thinks, _but can I tell you something really dumb without you deciding I'm the least sexy man on the planet?_

"Well," he says, deciding he's too far in to turn back now, "it's kind of…I mean, it's just that it'd be nice to know that no matter which side I sleep on, I'll still be able to smell you in my sheets."

_Dear God…That came out even worse than I thought it would…_

Lynette leans back a little; the movement shifts her too far out of the dim light—he can't read her face any more—and he's pretty sure he's just completely blown it. "Not…Well not you," he amends, trying to fix the situation. "Just…you know…someone…theoretically…Can you forget I even brought this up?"

"Tom," she says. She reaches out across the table; it takes him a second to realize she wants his hand, and he prays it's not as clammy as he thinks it is. "It's okay."

"No."

"Yeah. It's kind of sweet. In a weird way."

And there's that relief again. He wonders when he'll stop being surprised by the fact that she isn't completely turned off by his less than cool exterior.

He wonders if someday she'll be able to make him forget that he was ever nervous at all.

"I'm sorry," he says, not quite sure what he's apologizing for. "It's just that I really like you."

"I really like you too."

"And I tend to be—Wait, what?"

"I really like you too," she repeats slowly. "You don't have to try so hard."

"I'm just…I'm not very good at this whole dating thing. I'm good at the flirting, and I'm great at the bedroom stuff—"

"Is that a promise?"

"Er—"

She smiles, dipping her head for a second and squeezing his fingers. "You're great at the flirting," she says. "But I didn't agree to go out with you just because you hit on me."

"You didn't? Because I was pretty persistent."

"Oh I know." Her tone is low and dangerous again; his body stiffens at the sound of it. "It's a very admirable quality. But, seriously, Tom…I decided to go out with you because you're genuine and nice and funny and passionate."

"Oh yeah?" And he can't help but smile. Just a little. Just because it's nice to know that underneath all the longing looks and little touches and teasing at work, this really does have the potential to become something more.

And he's starting to realize that he really wants it to be more.

"Yeah," she says. "Well, and because my stomach does cartwheels every time I see you."

There's a million things he wants to say to her in that moment. That she's amazing and special and he's never met anyone like her. That she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. That this is the first time he's been with someone where he isn't defining the entire relationship with limits. That he wants to spend the night with her—the whole night, together in a bed where they don't have sides.

But instead:

"I'm glad it's not just me then."

It's pretty lame.

Yet somehow, exactly right.


	2. Naptime

**Disclaimer: **It's still not mine.

**A/n: **Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I'm glad you guys are enjoying this (it's certainly helping me to write them!).

**All the Pretty Little Moments**

By **Ryeloza**

**Two: Naptime**

As Lynette cautiously eyed the mess of clutter that had accumulated downstairs over the past few days, she couldn't help but feel the most genuine, bone-weary despair most people associated with a tragedy or loss. The terrible conflict of action, a choice between sighing or crying or maybe just walking out of the door and never coming back, was more overwhelming than it should have been considering all she was facing was a couple of hours of cleaning. It wasn't something she thought she could admit to anyone—that the prospect of tackling a mess was too much for her to handle—but with the evidence staring her right in the face, it seemed impossible that her friends wouldn't take one look at the place tomorrow and realize that she, the former vice president of an advertising firm, had been bested by a little clutter.

The frightful thought did little to boost her enthusiasm for the work—the thought of showing such weakness was not nearly the motivation it should have been—but before she could do anything further to psych herself up, the door opened and Tom stepped into the house. Lynette was fairly certain that her mouth actually dropped open at the sight of him, the sob she'd been fighting for minutes now instantly getting thick and obnoxious in her throat, but she stood rooted to the spot, just staring, not quite believing her eyes.

"Hey," he said, barely batting an eye at the mess. In fact, he just dropped his suitcase and briefcase on the floor, tossing his coat somewhere in the direction of the couch, and walked toward her with a smile. She was too surprised to protest that in some small way, he'd just added to the chaos. "I'm home early," he added pointedly after she didn't return his greeting.

Her "I see that" was swallowed up as he leaned down to kiss her. He wasn't supposed to be home for two more days. She'd specifically drawn a heart on the calendar on the tenth, "Tom home 10am" scrawled underneath in her messy hand, and she couldn't quite grasp the idea that he was here, now, without any warning whatsoever.

When she finally managed to speak, it was only to voice the obvious, doing little to convey anything she was really feeling. "I wasn't expecting you."

Maybe it was a strange thing to say; he raised an eyebrow, but the smile didn't fade from his face. "What? Do you have another guy hiding in the laundry room?"

"That's not funny," she said, slapping his chest, still fighting the ridiculous urge to cry. "I'm just…"

"Excited? Thrilled? Wanton with desire?"

And even though his hands were low on her back, rubbing in tiny little circles that she knew meant that he'd like to jump her bones right in the middle of the kitchen, the only thing she could say was: "Exhausted."

"Oh," he said, deflating just a bit. "It's naptime, isn't it?"

"The kids are asleep, yeah."

"I meant your naptime."

Her laugh came out unbidden, dark and barking and incredulous, nearly that sob she'd been holding inside. "My naptime?"

"You're supposed to sleep when the kids do, remember?"

"I don't have time to sleep."

"Honey…"

She stepped back out of his grasp, resenting his chastisement no matter how well intentioned it might have been. Sleeping when the kids slept felt like was of those hilarious ironies she'd read in a book of humor years ago, an ideal that had fallen by the wayside somewhere around the time she'd ended up with three kids under the age of two and a husband who'd been traveling more often than he was home. The fact that he couldn't understand that naptime was now the only time she had even a moment to breathe—a moment to get anything done—was enough to make her want to scream.

Either he was getting too good at reading her body language, or else her reaction time was off, because before she could even open her mouth to lambast him, he put his hands on her shoulders, spun her around and marched her toward the stairs. "Okay," he said. "That's it. Let's go."

"What? Go where?"

He shook his head, as though it was obvious, and he pitied her for not realizing. "You need to sleep."

"The house is a mess!"

"I don't care."

"Tom!"

"If you're not going to take care of yourself, then I'm afraid you're just going to have to put up with me. Tell me the truth, when was the last time you actually caught up on your sleep?"

"January of '98?"

He laughed as he propelled her upstairs, and she wondered if he knew she wasn't really joking. "Yeah," he agreed. "That sounds about right."

"I'm really not that tired."

"Uh-huh."

"I have stuff to do."

Somehow they had reached their bedroom, and she turned as Tom reached out to open the door, facing him with pleading eyes. It was ridiculous—just ten minutes ago she'd been ready to run out the door rather than face cleaning the house—but she felt compelled to show him that she could handle this on her own. It was a matter of pride. Dignity.

"You are so stubborn."

Maybe that too.

"Look, babe," he said, gently ushering her into the room. "You're just going to have to accept that you're not going to win this one."

"No."

"Yes."

"But—"

"But you're going to let your fabulous and dedicated husband clean the house while you get some sleep?"

And despite how pathetic it felt, she had to admit that it was the best offer she'd had from anyone in much too long.

"Well…" Protest and acceptance both died on her lips as he tugged down the comforter and she dropped down on the bed. The second her head hit the pillow, her eyes shut against her will and she let out a deep breath that it felt like she'd been holding in for months.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she did need this.

Not that she was going to tell him.

His lips brushed against her temple as he actually tucked her into bed, but she couldn't even find the energy to smile gratefully. And maybe he wasn't going to straighten up as well as she would have or put everything exactly where it was supposed to go or do any more than order takeout for dinner, but it felt like a small price to pay for what he was doing.

"Someone has to take care of you, beautiful," he murmured, and somewhere already halfway to a dream, she thought that it might be true.


	3. The Look

**Disclaimer: **This really isn't mine. Everyone knows that, right?

**A/n: **Bumping the rating up to M in this chapter, so if that's not your thing, just skip over this one. I'd love to hear what you think, so please take a second to review. And thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review so far—I'm glad you guys are enjoying these.

**All the Pretty Little Moments**

By **Ryeloza**

**Three: The Look**

Tom is halfway through his hamburger when he first notices the mischievous look in Lynette's eyes. They're sitting at opposite ends of the round booth, the kids dividing them evenly on either side, enjoying a rare night out to eat. It's a celebration of the twins moving from eighth grade to high school, and as he catches sight of that glint in Lynette's eyes, he truly believes it's because she won her battle with the library over Porter's late book fees. He'd wager that it's nearly beating out her excitement over two fewer private school payments per year and that it's just about on par with her pride in their kids; Lynette hasn't met an injustice yet that she doesn't find thrill in overcoming.

"—and I don't see why we can't just _burn_ our uniforms," Preston says, rolling his eyes in his mother's direction. Lynette just ignores him, and Tom is very grateful that this is one fight he doesn't have to get in the middle of.

"Yeah, let them burn them. I don't want to wear their old ones," whines Parker.

The boys continue debating the merits of the destruction of clothing, but Lynette seems less than concerned with their vague promises to do it behind her back. In fact, she just continues to give him oddly flirtatious looks, barely able to hide her smile behind her forkful of salad. It's so strange—so exciting—that Tom can't help but smile back.

"What?" he mouths. The kids aren't paying any attention anyway.

She shrugs innocently, batting her eyelashes at him, and Tom's stomach does an unexpected somersault. Whatever high she's gotten from this day is clearly putting her in one of those moods, and he can't remember the last time he's seen her this playful. He has the sudden, hopeful idea that he's actually going to get lucky tonight, and just the thought of it makes him grin like an idiot.

"Can we go play games now?" asks Porter, his tone caught somewhere between the childishness of a whine and the maturity of a genuine request. The other kids' eyes flash eagerly, and Tom nearly chokes on his gulp of iced tea as Lynette digs a huge bag of quarters out of her purse and tosses them in Preston's direction.

"Those are for you to share," she says as she slides out of the booth to let Parker escape. Penny just crawls over his lap before he can scoot over, and before he can blink, he and Lynette are alone. Immediately, she slips back into the booth, shifting until they're sitting side-by-side. He loosely drops his arm around the back of the booth behind her, shaking his head fondly. "You planned that well."

"Yeah, well the kids didn't exactly pick this place for the cuisine."

"You mean the dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets weren't the draw?"

"Come on. If anything it the crinkle cut fries." She plucks one from Penny's plate, briefly teasing it against her smiling lips before taking a bite. That look she's been sporting all night is even more prevalent now—her eyes are sparkling as they dance in mirth—and he quirks an eyebrow. "What?" he asks, unable to keep the smile off of his face as she grins at him.

"Nothing."

"I know that look."

"Do you?"

Before he can respond, one of her hands settles on his knee, squeezing it briefly and then lazily trailing up his thigh. His eyes widen in shock, and she openly laughs at him. "What?" she asks way too innocently. Her hand reaches his crotch and she cups him like they're not sitting in the middle of a family restaurant. "I thought you knew this look."

"I do. That doesn't mean I expected you to act on it in the middle of a restaurant."

"See," she sighs (though in her jovial mood, she can't quite pull off the frustration), "that's the problem."

"Problem?"

"Uh-huh." She fumbles with the zipper of his fly as he glances anxiously at the other families around them, at the fathers who are definitely not on the verge of getting a hand job in a public place. He's not sure whether to pity them or wish he was one of them. "We've been in a rut lately."

"We have?"

"In the past month, we've been averaging about once a week."

"Uh—"

"And always on Thursdays or Sundays. I think that's practically the dictionary definition of a rut."

Tom gasps as she draws him out; he's already half-stiff just from her blatant intentions, and as her hand tightens around his cock, he can practically feel the blood rushing downstairs. "Lynette," he says, trying and failing to sound truly reluctant, "the kids are right across the room."

"The kids have twenty dollars in quarters and an entire arcade to entertain them. They won't be back anytime soon."

"That was twenty dollars in quarters?"

She draws her fingernails along the underside of his dick in response, and he stiffens, his hand clenching the booth behind her. "Do you really want to pretend you're not into this?"

"Do you really want to pretend this isn't the most inappropriate place you've ever done this?"

"That's debatable." Her hand slips into his boxers and grasps his balls; it's all he can do not to moan. After all these years, she practically has it down to a science how to get him off, and given the slight danger implicit in doing this in public, he's even more turned on than usual. And the truth is, she's right; they have been stuck in a rut lately, barely able to find the energy to go through the motions on their days off from work.

It's such a welcome change of pace that he nearly comes just from the unexpectedness.

"Wh-what would you do if I turned the tables on you?" he asks, barely in control of his own voice. She's gripping his cock like a vise now, rubbing him base to tip with a gradually increasing speed, and God, he just wants to shut his eyes and lose any control he has left.

"If you're talking about revenge, I say bring it on, babe." She leans in and kisses his cheek as her thumb swirls over the tip of his dick before she increases her already frantic pace. Impossibly, he tries to suppress a moan, but it escapes somewhere between a gasp and a groan of "Oh my God." Her voice drops to a whisper, breath hot against his neck where she still leans so close to him: "Do you know how fantastic it feels just to be touching your dick? I can't believe how hard you are. I wish you were inside of me, fucking me so hard and deep that I can't even see straight."

"Jesus," he hisses, and his eyes fall shut against his will. It's too much—her so close that he can smell her perfume; the tight, hot friction of her hand; her words; the mental image of screwing her senseless. Without warning, he shudders, coming right under the plastic, checkered tablecloth as she pumps him dry. It's so absurd, so dirty, so wrong, and he loves every moment of it.

As the tension passes, he sags back against the booth and blinks at her in awe. She quite calmly picks up a napkin, wiping him dry and then cleaning off her hand, but she's not fooling him in the slightest. She's as turned on as he was just moments ago, and he can't wait to work her into a frenzy the second they get home.


	4. Tightrope Walker

**Disclaimer: **This absolutely isn't mine. It never will be.

**A/n: **You guys are awesome. Thank you so much for reading, and especially to those of you who reviewed and brightened my (really long, really exhausting) day.

**All the Pretty Little Moments**

By **Ryeloza**

**Four: Tightrope Walker**

Lynette feels rather like a tightrope walker without a net: knowing exactly what she's doing and all of the potential dangers, but still taking the risk just to see if she can pull it off. The funny thing is that her maneuvers aren't nearly akin to balancing precariously on a thin piece of rope; in fact, they're downright innocuous in comparison. It's Tom that is the hazard to her well being; it's Tom who could easily push her until she falls down, down, down to her death.

She's already decided to blame him, even if it's just as much her fault.

Truly, she didn't intend anything by stepping over to the bookcase and leaning up on her tiptoes to try to reach a book. At first. It was only as she stretched up and felt her skirt moving right along with her and practically felt Tom's fiery gaze on her legs that she deliberately slowed down, deliberately drew this out. She grazes the book with her fingertips, knowing very well that she could extend her body just a little further and it would be within her reach, but she can't help but feel that wicked spark of thrill.

How long before he snaps?

And if he does snap, just what will he do?

This is the thing, her precious little secret that no one knows and she'll never admit: lately this man has been on her mind in ways beyond inappropriate.

The realization of this had come to her in a flash—an epiphany she still looks back on with slight disgust. Because if she is forced to admit it, she can't say that it was the night she had that steamy dream about him; that night that she woke up sweating and writhing in her bed with the ghost of the touch of a man she's never held haunting her memory. And it wasn't that night that he crept into her mind as she touched herself, unintentionally imagining him as she pushed herself over the edge. It wasn't even that day that he left his hand against the small of her back just a little too long—long enough for her stomach to flip over and long enough that she still felt the heat of his touch lingering long after. No, the moment came one boring Thursday night as she sat on her couch watching _Jeopardy_, shouting out answers and cursing the eighteenth century wars category. In one stupid moment, she picked up the phone to call him, ready to shoot one of the more obscure questions his way just to see if he knew the answer.

Ready to invite him over in time for _Wheel of Fortune_ to see if he was a good at guessing bad puns as he was at making them.

And it was then that she knew: this wasn't normal.

This wasn't just fantasizing about the hot guy in the office.

This was about taking him home, curling up on the couch with him, and just being together.

It was shocking enough that she spent the next few days avoiding him.

The problem is that she's always been a tightrope walker at heart, and she just can't help getting off on the excitement, the danger, the risk. And it is a risk. A risk of her mind, her heart, her soul; she could fall so completely for him that she thinks she'd be lost forever. It's terrifying. And yet…

And yet _maybe_.

So she pushes him. She dresses just a little sexier, lets her hair down instead of pinning it back, brushes against him and lingers just a little too long. It's a beautiful torture, waiting to see if he'll ever snap. Truthfully, she's not sure if she wants him to or not: it truly feels like the line between life and death. If it happens, the spontaneous combustion could leave her aching for years to come.

She can't even entertain the possibility that he might actually want to sit with her and watch TV and maybe be more. She's never been the kind of girl that guys think of that way, and she's not naïve enough to think anything will change just because she has a little crush.

So she walks the line, holding her breath, and wondering.

She places her right foot on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, ready to use the leverage to push up and grab the book, but just as she makes the move, he's there. She feels the heat from his body first, blanketing her in the most innocently sinful way, and then he's leaning over her, hand reaching past hers, fingers dancing over hers as he takes the book. For a second, she can't breathe—the hundred little sensations of his body _nearly_ touching her all too much—and then she turns around.

And it gets so much worse.

She's face-to-face with his chest, and it's impossible to count how many times she's pictured him without his shirt, licking and kissing her way over the taut muscles and smooth skin. So she slowly looks up before she does something ridiculous like rip open his shirt, but he's looking down at her too and their eyes meet and the power there is overwhelming. He's staring at her in a way that can only be described as heated; eyes boring into her very soul.

"Here," he says, his voice so low she can feel it in pulsating deep inside of her. Her gaze glides from his eyes to his lips—just for a second—but it's the stupidest thing she could do.

"Thanks." If he kisses her, she's gone.

She takes the book, and he lowers his hand, and it settles on her hip. His thumb slips under her blouse to tease a little patch of skin, and she wonders if he knows exactly what he's doing to her—if he knows exactly how sensitive she is there—if he knows that if he replaced his thumb with his mouth, she'd melt right before his eyes.

But without warning, as beautifully as it just began, it ends. He drops his hand and steps back and turns away, and he's babbling about whatever they're supposed to be working on, but she can't hear him. She's too busy burning alive and wondering if she's happy or disappointed that he didn't kiss her.

Yes, she's a tightrope walker alright. The problem is she's a terrible one.

No matter how skillfully she steps, she's going to fall.


	5. Challenge

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**All the Pretty Little Moments**

By **Ryeloza**

**Five: Challenge**

Lynette lay back on the couch, her feet resting on his lap, and even though she had a book in her hand, he could tell that her eyes were on him. It was an unusually calm Wednesday night—neither of them had worked at the restaurant today and all of the kids had gone to bed without protest for possibly the first time in history—and they'd decided to celebrate by kicking back and doing absolutely nothing. She had her book and he'd found _Die Hard _on TV, and for the past hour they'd been quietly content in their solitude. But now she was staring and Bruce Willis wasn't anywhere near saving the day yet, and even though he was steadfastly ignoring her, he knew this wasn't going to last much longer.

Her right foot chose that moment to skate up and down his chest, toe circling his pecs, and he mentally amended his last thought.

She was done leaving him alone.

Casually, he grasped her ankle and lowered her leg, trying to appease her by halfheartedly rubbing her foot. He'd scarcely begun, though, when she shifted; in a matter of seconds, she sat up and scooted closer to him, one of her hands settled on his chest, and her lips brushed his jawline. "Lynette," he said, breaking his own cardinal rule by engaging her in conversation. "I'm trying to watch this."

Her book slid to the floor with an ominous thump. "You've seen this movie a hundred times."

"No, you always change the channel whenever I put it on."

"Do not." She sucked his earlobe into her sweet mouth, nipping at it gently. Involuntarily, his hands stiffened, the remote clenched beneath his fingers. "No," he agreed shakily. "Sometimes you try to distract me until I forget it's even on."

She pulled back and raised questioning eyes to the ceiling; at the same time, her fingers twisted through his hair, the bitter scraping of her fingernails sending a shiver up and down his spine. "Do I do that?"

"You're doing it right now."

"I'm not trying to distract you."

"Oh no?"

"No." She patted his chest and smiled. For about two seconds, it seemed like she was telling the truth. Then she leaned forward and caught the corner of his mouth in an awkwardly sexy kiss. "I'm just really, really horny."

He groaned. Without even really thinking about it, he twisted toward her, throwing her back against the couch and pinning her arms above her head. Her eyes went wide, so clearly full of lust that his brain nearly shut off right then, and she squirmed beneath him. "Am I annoying you?" she asked oh-so-innocently and not at all regretfully.

"Completely."

"Hmm." She let out a sound that he thought she meant to be a sigh; it came out more like a moan. "Well what do you plan to do about that?"

If she'd been able to see in to his mind at that moment, she might have been shocked by the number of ideas that ran through his head—everything from tying her hands behind her back and leaving her a writhing, frustrated mess until his movie ended to ripping off her clothes right then and taking her on the couch. Of course, that was exactly what she wanted; after all these years, she had manipulating his sex drive down to an art, and usually he'd just give in because…

Well, because he was a guy and she was so damn hot and feisty and willing.

But she wasn't playing fair, and the thought of giving in just one more time and letting her win again was too much. Tonight, this was going to be on his terms.

"I'll give you a choice," he finally said.

"What?" She sounded flabbergasted, and he grinned wickedly.

"I'll give you a choice."

"A choice?"

"Uh-huh. You can let me watch the end of my movie, and as soon as it's over, I'll do whatever you want, wherever you want…"

She licked her lips, visibly swallowing, and flexed her wrists where they still lay trapped by his hands. He could see her mind racing with every exciting possibility of having complete and total say over what they did tonight. "Or?"

"Or we have sex right now while I continue to watch the movie. Perfunctory, run-of-the-mill, _distracted_ sex."

"That's not fair."

"I know. But you don't fight fair either, babe."

She blew out a breath, obviously frustrated. In a seemingly last ditch effort, she raised her hips against him, wriggling them in a way that was nearly mind blowing enough to make him change his mind right then. Miraculously, he held out, staring down at her with an unblinking gaze.

"You're serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"Fine," she sighed haughtily.

"Fine…?"

Her face contorted as though she was physically in pain, and he almost laughed at her struggle to admit he had won. Though it was rare, it was always thrilling to triumph over her absolute obstinacy. "Fine, you win. I'll wait until your stupid movie is over. But you better live up to your end of the bargain."

But just like that, he was gone, leaning down and kissing her so hot and hard that he very nearly lost himself completely. As much as challenging each other was their most potent form of foreplay, winning the challenge was even better. It was a ridiculous turn-on—besting her—a high he couldn't just let pass him by.

And really, what did it matter anyway. After all, he'd seen this movie a hundred times.

She was better.


	6. Business Trip

**Disclaimer: ** Nope. Not mine.

**A/n: **I know this is later than I promised (traveling across the country this weekend kind of threw off my schedule), but I know that I sure could use some fluff. Kind of a random one, but I really wanted to try to capture the early tentativeness of a relationship. I'm not sure if it worked or not, so I would love to hear what you think.

Many thanks in advance to anyone who reads and/or reviews. You guys are awesome!

**All the Pretty Little Moments**

By **Ryeloza**

**Six: Business Trip**

Lynette has only been working at the firm for three weeks when her boss announces that she's going on a business trip. Despite the dirty looks she gets from some of her coworkers, she's excited. Excited that they have this much confidence in her after such a short time, excited to prove herself, excited to get away for a few days even if it's just for work (she hasn't worked here long enough to take a summer vacation this year). It lasts until after lunch when Tom Scavo sticks his head in her office and says, "You and me in Phoenix." He waggles his eyebrows at her, and she fights the urge to roll her eyes. "Par-tay."

She prays to any deity above that he's pulling her leg and says, "You're coming too?"

"Yep." He grins like he knows he's irritating her. "Dream team. John actually used those words."

And at that moment, the trip seems less like a reward and more like a punishment. She can't really explain it either. John really does believe they're a dream team, and whether or not he's right is a moot point because he'll keep pairing them together as long as they keep performing. But the truth is that Tom gets under her skin for reasons she can't explain. It's the way he smiles at her and how he's always joking around and this strangely charming way he has about him. The absurdity of it rings so loudly in her ears that she can't actually say it aloud, not even to her friends. They'd just think she's crazy.

She thinks she's crazy.

"Great," she lies. "Go team."

He chuckles like she's actually funny (truthfully she doesn't even recognize the woman who just spoke those words) and leaves her to lay her head on her desk in frustration. Already she knows it's going to be the longest trip of her life.

She ends up taking a taxi to the airport even though Tom offered her a ride, waiting until the last possible moment to leave. Somehow she still beats Tom to the terminal, and even though she's relieved, she's also utterly annoyed when he runs in at the last minute, breathing heavily and grinning foolishly. "Made it," he says like it's something to be proud of.

"Barely."

He shrugs, and she realizes that he couldn't care less. Before she can get worked up about that, though, they announce that they're boarding, and Tom has his hand on the small of her back leading her toward the gate. For some reason she can't explain, she's hyperaware of that hand: the warmth she can feel all the way through her blazer; how bizarrely feminine the action makes her feel; the innocuous intimacy of such a gesture. As she hands her ticket over, the flight attendant smiles like she knows something that Lynette doesn't, and the heat rises in her cheeks.

When she passes through the door, she lengthens her pace, pulling away from Tom. He doesn't notice, or if he does, he doesn't care; he just lags behind her like a faithful puppy. Then, of course, as they step on the plane he greets the flight attendant like an old friend; she rolls her eyes and shuffles toward business class while he smiles all winningly, murmuring apologies and excuse me-s as he squeezes through the crowded plane. When they reach their seats, he takes her bag from her hand before she can protest, easily placing it in the overhead bin and says, "You want the window seat? You seem like a window seat kind of woman."

She stares incredulously—what does that even mean?—but doesn't respond. After a minute, she goes in and sits down, taking the window seat just so he doesn't have to climb over her.

It has nothing to do with the fact that she _does_ like to look out the window, and that it's almost strangely chivalrous that he'll take the crappy middle seat for her. When he grins at her, though (like he was right—he doesn't even _know_ her), she feels something inside of her snap. The second he sits down, she turns and murmurs, "What makes you think I want the window seat? I'd be perfectly happy in the middle."

"Do you want to switch?"

"No!"

He raises an eyebrow and shrugs, casually reaching around to buckle his seatbelt. "Are you okay? You seem a little tense."

"I'm fine." It's a lie. Sitting this close to him she can smell his aftershave and her head is swimming like the scent is intoxicating. Every thought seems to be swirling around incomprehensibly like she can't piece them together. He's just so nice; maybe the most genuinely nice person she's ever known. Why does he keep looking at her like that—so direct and piercing and caring? Why does her chest get so tight that she almost can't breathe whenever he's around?

He smiles like he knows something she doesn't. "Fasten your seatbelt," he prompts, and she's not sure if she wants to kiss him or kick him.

Kiss him? Wait—what?

Fumbling, she hooks the two halves of the seatbelt together, shutting her eyes and trying to block out every thought in her mind because clearly she's losing it. Sleep deprivation or nerves or something. It isn't until the plane begins to move that she opens her eyes again. She wants to look out the window because some little part of her does love to watch the world fade away, but she makes the mistake of looking at Tom first. His own eyes are squeezed shut tight, hands gripping the arms of the seat.

He's a nervous flier. She smiles; pieces the information away like it's actually useful. Maybe it's ridiculous to catalogue this sort of trivia, but she has the feeling that he's doing the same thing with her. It's inexplicable—or maybe she just doesn't want to figure it out. Either way, for once in her life she can't bring herself to dissect any of this.

Especially the part where she rests her hand on top of his, exerting the lightest pressure as she turns to stare out of the window.

It's only a little surprising when he turns his hand over and threads their fingers together.


End file.
